


Tell Me a Story

by Kestrel_Sparhawk



Series: Tell Me a Story [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-12
Updated: 2014-12-12
Packaged: 2018-03-01 04:50:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2760197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kestrel_Sparhawk/pseuds/Kestrel_Sparhawk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a Shire outing pre-Quest, Frodo and young Sam find a stranger whose larger knowledge of old stories changes Sam's life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tell Me a Story

**Author's Note:**

> Story notes: At end, to avoid spoilers, except to note, if you don't like poems, you can skip the song - not essential to plot, but I hate to put in things like "he sang a song Beren sang," or whatever. It's my own work, not Tolkien's.

 

Prologue - SR 1389

"So what happened next?"

"After the trees of Gold and Silver died, the Valar decided to let the light come from two vessels, the Sun and the Moon. The sun was guided by a Maia called Arien, who had never been corrupted. And the Moon was put in the charge of Tilion, but he was so attracted by Arien that Varda decided there would be times when there was only shadow and half light, neither sun nor moon, so we could see the stars.

"And that's how light came to Middle Earth."

The older lad threw the last stick on the fire and wrapped his cloak more tightly around him. It was nearly October and the wind was colder, now that dark had come. The stars were spread out against the sky in chilling profusion.

The child shivered a little. "I'm cold."

"Come under my cloak with me, then," the lad said indulgently. 

He willingly came, and climbed into the warm lap. "Do you believe that story?"

His elder pursed his lips thoughtfully. "I suppose. Yes, I guess I do. Don't you?"

"If you do."

The elder laughed. "Samlad, you don't have to have the same opinions I do on everything, you know."

"Well," the child said, rubbing his curls against the other's cheek, "I may not have to, but I _intend_ to."

 

Walking Tour - SR 1396

Frodo sat up and leaned against the tree he'd been sleeping under. His head hurt, and he felt queasy. He could see, by the first ragged streaks of light, and thought dawn looked like the first red streaks of an infection on a dark hand. He looked around at his sleeping companions, resenting their peace. One immediately sat up as well.

"It's early, Sam. Go back to sleep."

"Than why are you up, Mr. Frodo?"

"My turn to have trouble sleeping, I suppose."

"I'll put the kettle on."

"I said it's early."

"I'm not sleepy either."

"You should be imitating those lumps."

Sam looked over at Frodo's three cousins, all curled tightly in their blankets and breathing deep. "I don't think I should, then, Mr. Frodo."

Frodo laughed. "You'll be in terrible shape for the Festival if you don't."

"I'll sleep if you sleep."

Frodo sighed and gave in. "All right, Sam, put the kettle on if you like. Then we'll kick the others awake."

Frodo and his cousins Meriadoc, Peregrine, and Frederegar had decided to walk to the harvest festival at Needlehole, which this time included the unveiling of a new brew of wheat ale. For reasons Frodo had never explored to himself, he had invited Sam to join them. Possibly it was to be sure that at least one of his companions would do what he wanted, whatever it chanced to be that day.

This third day of their trip, it was a proposal to take a detour through Bindbale Wood.

The response was predictable.

"The festival only lasts three days," was Pippin's argument. "We'll miss the first."

"Too far out of our way," said Fatty.

"Too dull," said Merry.

"Whatever you say, Mr. Frodo," said Sam.

Frodo's head, which had not improved with tea or toast, didn't feel that a day of ale tasting and merriment was going to improve it either. He looked around at his companions -three determined young hobbits looking forward to an afternoon and evening of hard drinking, and sleeping in a campground provided for revelers, and the calm, friendly glance of a young hobbit who could be relied on not to argue, chatter, or drink too much - at least, not often. He wondered, not for the first time, what strange star of fortune had created, among all his friends, the best match for his temperament in a gardener's son.

"I tell you what," he said. "I'm not looking that much forward to the festival. I could take my walk in Bindbale by myself, after all, and meet up with you at the festival."

There was some, but not much argument. When Frodo was in an anti-social mood, his cousins considered themselves better off without him. He had a clever tongue, and didn't mind using it on them if they bothered him - and they planned to do a lot of the sorts of things that would bother him, including drinking large amounts, singing and dancing with complete strangers, and bringing new friends home to share their camp.

So Frodo re-allocated some of the foodstuffs to his pack, and started off happily.

After a few hundred feet, he realized that Sam was following him.

"Where are you going, Sam?"

"With you, of course."

"But Sam, you like ale. You wanted to come to the Festival."

"I want to see Bindbale Wood."

Frodo shrugged. "Fine, but . . ." He couldn't actually think of any reason for Sam not to come. It was just spending a night alone with Sam was not something he had done since Sam was a lad. Come to think of it, Sam was tagging along exactly as he had done when he was 8. It was just . . .

Frodo shook his head, not sure why he felt dimly discomforted at the thought of just the two of them, alone together. And certainly the road was pleasanter with Sam. They walked along, singing journey songs, stopping for elevenses in a sunlit coppice which smelled of late berries and humus. The Wood was easy to find, and quite satisfactory, being wilder than the Woody End, thicker with evergreen than deciduous trees, deep and dark and difficult to traverse.

Sam knew what most of the trees and bushes were, but the ones he'd never encountered took more of his attention. The two were constantly stopping as Sam would cradle a flower, or stroke a leaf, and try to place it by its resemblance to others. Frodo finally pulled out the small notebook he was never without and gave it to Sam to sketch and note down the mysterious attributes that helped Sam remember - three leaves, aggregate flowers, whatever.

His cousins would have been bored out of their minds, Frodo thought, and then realized that they wouldn't have, because Sam wouldn't have acted this way. Sam had not so intensively examined things on the road, though much must have been new to him - he had too much to do to tramp the Shire as Frodo had.

"Did you see new plants as we came north, Sam?" he asked. Sam, pressing a yellow leaf in the notebook, blushed and nodded. "But everyone was so hurried, I didn't want to take the time to look."

Frodo took this as a cue to sit on a dead tree and throw down his pack. "I'm not hurried."

"You never are, when we're alone." Frodo looked thoughtfully at the blush on Sam's face.

"How can you tell?"

"You stop and talk about whatever I'm looking at, like it interested you too."

"Well, it does." He'd never thought about it interesting him. When he was alone, or with Bilbo, looking at plants just never happened. They looked at wider views, vistas, great waters. Stopping at a bog to see what grew there just would never occur to either of them. He was only interested when Sam pointed things out to him.

Sam liked stars and vistas as well, once they were drawn to his attention. But his eyes were usually on the ground. He saw what no one else noticed, because they were all looking farther away.

Frodo looked at Sam. _Like I never notice Sam._ Always comfortable, always reliable. Perhaps a little dull. Too close up to notice and, unlike his plants, Sam didn't draw Frodo's attention to himself. And yet, whatever he drew attention to was worthy of interest.

Well, enough philosophical wandering. "Where shall we sleep tonight?"

This was one of the questions Sam could be relied on to have opinions about. "Let's look for noisy water - likely to be fewer insects there."

They found a creek, running through the woods, narrow over rocks, then widening out in one place where animal tracks suggested it was a popular place to drink, and flowing on. They set up a campsite in a clearing a bit upstream from the rocks, pleased by the clear, cold water close to hand. Sam and Frodo used their slings to add squirrel to their menu, plump and well-fed for the approaching winter.

After dinner, they stretched out on blankets and looked at the stars.

"You used to tell me stories about the stars, and everything else," Sam commented. "I don't supposed you'd like to tell me a story now. Or sing some of the verses of a story."

"You know most of them."

"Maybe, but I like to hear them. What was the one about the Sickle?"

Frodo thought, since there was more than one. "You mean the song that Beren sang when he was in the pits of Sauron, and Finrod Felagund had been slain by the werewolf?"

"Yes."

This was one Bilbo had not translated, and Frodo's attempt was, he thought, at best mediocre. But it was undeniably a tale which stirred him. So he sang, a bit self-consciously, but clearly, for after all, no one could hear him but Sam:

A line of stars great Varda gave, a promise strung with perfect light,  
That not a single star is lost in all the countless realms of night.  
She kindled bright across the dark a crown of mighty stars to swing,  
That promised Melkor would be lost, and all the dissonance he sang.  
Now let the stars their promise keep, and hear my song beyond the Earth,  
I am bound to serve the light by every circumstance of birth.  
To praise the stars, the light that lives, to sing and praise Iluvatar;  
In life and death, we all are crowned with the great Sickle of the stars.

 

When he was done, he looked up, and realized that Sam had lit up like the stars in the song. "That was lovely," Sam breathed. " _To praise the stars, the light that lives..._ Imagine him singing a challenge to his captors like that, though, when his best friend had just died. I would never be that brave."

And then, beyond all expectation or likelihood, they heard a sweet voice singing - the same melody, but the words were not the same. Elvish, thought Sam, and Quenya, Frodo thought. It was weak, and not far away.

Sam went very pale, and clutched Frodo's hand. "Did you hear that too, Mr. Frodo, or did I . . . ?"

"Sssh." Frodo squeezed his hand to soften the order, and after a moment, stood up. "I think we'd best go look."

The voice was singing again, but more weakly, and then it faded. The two hobbits, in the complete silence and invisibility that their race had perfected, cautiously moved into the direction of the sound.

Beyond the clearing, they found toppled trees rotting, and it occurred to Frodo that the clearing might not be natural. He crept through the rotted stumps, and saw what appeared to be a body, nearly naked, and sucked in his breath. Sam was right behind him, though, and he had the habit of trying to appear grown up and brave before his younger shadow. So he continued forward, surprised to note that Sam, hearing Frodo's sound of concern, had come closer, rather than hesitating farther back.

Then Sam saw the body too, and hurried to it, Frodo stumbling a little behind now. The head was in shadow, but he noted by the last of the moon darker shadows that might be blood, or deep bruises, on the pale skin. He also realized that, whatever the body was, it wasn't a hobbit, being at least twice their height.

Sam was staring at the face. "Mr. Frodo, I think it's an elf!"

"Don't be silly, Sam, elves don't come to this part of . . ." but Frodo's voice trailed off, because he could see the face, a little, and it appeared Sam might be right.

Sam was feeling at the body's neck. "He's alive. Cool, but his heart's beating."

"Do you think we can lift him?" It would be easier to build up their fire in the clearing rather than try to create one amid all this dead wood.

Sam looked at Frodo's body, assessing it. Frodo felt oddly aware, and also dimly defensive; he knew he did not have the strength or size of many hobbits, but it seemed to him somehow especially discomforting that Sam would notice that.

Finally, Sam said, "Pick him up under the knees, then, and I'll get his trunk. He's thin, and it's not very far."

Frodo found the weight difficult, but not staggering. Sam staggered with his share. They were not far from their campsite, but it took 10 minutes, putting their weight down several times in the scramble over the dead trees.

Frodo lit their one lantern while Sam built up the fire. The two blankets that had been so generous for them, used together, could at least cover the stranger.

"Where do you suppose his clothes are?" Frodo asked, as Sam tucked in the blankets around the victim as much as possible.

"I'd guess robbers. Sometimes this happens in wild places, if the clothes are good. But Men don't come into the Shire often. Or perhaps he was robbed outside the Shire and came in." But Sam's voice trailed off doubtfully, because that hardly seemed a probable explanation.

"Staggering across 90 miles of hobbit land naked at _his_ height?"

"We better look and see what's wrong with him."

They brought the lantern closer and examined the elf a piece at a time, keeping as much of him covered as possible. He was badly bruised, and they thought the bruises might indicate more serious injuries, but since both were innocent of any healer knowledge except the simplest, it was hard to say. It would not be surprising if ribs were broken from bruises on the front, and clearly he had been kicked in the back. There were also bruises around his jaw and nose that might be an explanation for his unconsciousness. Other than that, all they could determine was that he had not been stabbed, which was not particularly helpful.

"What shall we do, Mr. Frodo?" Sam asked. Frodo shook his head.

"If you think I have experience with such things, Sam, I'm sorry to disappoint you. You know I live a stodgy life. All I can really suggest is keeping him warm and seeing if he wakes up. But . . . "

He trailed off. "But?" Sam prompted him.

"If ruffians attacked him, they may still be around, which isn't good news for any of us. We probably aren't worth robbing, but one never knows." He looked pensive. "If I'd known we were going to need it, I could have borrowed Bilbo's sword from the museum at Michel Delving."

"I truly hope we aren't going to need it," Sam said, calm as ever. He sat there by the elf's side, thinking.

"The one time it would be useful to have your cousins by, too."

"Useful? How?"

"They're rascals, sir. They could think of some traps which would at least give us warning."

Frodo grinned. "Oh, if that's all, I think we could come up with some as well."

The elf was still unconscious when they had finished their preparations. He was shivering a little.

"I think we should sleep close to him and help him warm," Frodo said, wondering how Sam would respond to this.

"Good idea." Sam promptly lay down, pulled the blanket up, and snuggled close. "I'm not sure I'll be able to sleep like this, Mr. Frodo, but it will be warmer for us too."

Frodo hesitated, partly from the shyness of lying by a stranger, partly out of sheer delight at the improbable view of his earthy Sam's face next to the ethereal elf's. "You don't mind?"

Sam looked puzzled. "Seems to me doesn't matter much if I minded or not. He needs heat."

Frodo nodded, and lay down on the other side. "You're right, it feels odd to sleep like this."

He felt Sam's hand reach across the stranger and rest on his shoulder. "Best try, Mr. Frodo. You got little sleep last night."

And with that familiar touch, it was easy to close his eyes.

He woke to gray eyes staring at him.

"Um. . . good morning," Frodo said, sitting up and self consciously moving a little away from the other.

The stranger nodded. Somehow it was easier to think of him as "stranger" than as "elf." Less odd.

"You are the singer," he said.

"I beg your pardon?" Really, this was all so difficult before tea.

"I heard you sing last night."

"Oh. Yes, that was me. I. "

"A translation of Beren's Sickle song." A faint smile touched his face. "One I have not heard before."

"It was my own poor effort, I'm afraid," Frodo said, taking refuge in hobbit courtesy. He stood up and bowed to his guest. "I am Frodo Baggins, hobbit of the Shire, at your service." He looked around and saw no sign of Sam, except the campfire beginning to catch. He was probably off fetching water. "I and my servant heard you last night and brought you here. You seemed hurt - how are you?"

The stranger inclined his head gravely, giving the impression that he would have stood and bowed himself had he felt capable of it. "I am . . . please call me Lindar. Thank you for your care."

Frodo heard a sound, and looked to see Sam returning, the camp kettle obviously full of water in his hands. Tea. Good. "This is Samwise. Sam, come meet Lindar."

Sam made his bow, as best he could still carrying the heavy kettle, and hung it over the campfire. Then he came and squatted close to their guest.

"Are you hungry? I can make something hot, but if you tell me when you last ate, it'll be easier to figure out what you should have - broth, or tea, or pancakes if you'd rather."

Lindar looked slightly amused again. "I have been lying in those woods for some time, Samwise. I would be grateful for something solid."

Sam nodded. He squinted at Lindar's face. "So what happened to you?"

Frodo, who had been trying to think of a polite way to inquire, was grateful for Sam's country directness, but frowned at him anyway, on principle.

"If you would help me sit up. . . " With a little struggle, they got him seated, his back against a log, and one of the two blankets draped around his shoulders like a cape.

"Thank you. I and . . . a companion had ridden into your land primarily on a whim. We have heard of this forest, and I desired to see it."

"Whyever for?" Sam asked, startled. "Is it so unusual?"

"No, but I am a maker of songs, and it appears in one of the oldest songs concerning Eriador."

Sam glanced over at Frodo, who, never his best before breakfast, was listening carefully but felt unequal to joining the conversation. "Eriador is the area of the world in which the Shire is situated," Frodo explained. He tried to read Sam's face - there was something there all out of proportion to that little fact. But there was nothing to hold on to.

"So you came to look at the forest," Sam prompted.

"We were followed." The words were bleak. He looked at their faces, and clearly sought words. "You are . .. sheltered in your land, and guarded by more than you know. But outside, storms are rising. It is not safe to ride unarmed, and I am a singer, not a fighter. It is against our tradition to go armed. But I and my companion, who rides armed, were separated, and two Men followed me. I did not know this, and continued to my destination, because I thought she would find me more easily where she knew I was going."

He paused, and Sam got up to check the water. Seeing it was boiling, he made tea and porridge, while Lindar rested with his eyes closed and Frodo simply sat, watching him, and thinking about the fact that outside the Shire dangers were increasing. He wondered if there would come a time the dangers would be so strong they might actually enter the Shire. After all, many years ago, orcs had invaded. It was not inconceivable.

He drank the tea Sam brought gratefully, and watched, amused, as Lindar tried porridge for what clearly was the first time. Sam made it well, but unquestionably it was not the kind of food Bilbo had described elves as eating. However, sweetened with honey and thick with nuts and fruit, it seemed to be acceptable, and Lindar's color was much better after he had finished. Sam brought more tea and sat comfortably next to Frodo, clearly wanting to hear the rest of the story.

"There isn't much more to tell," Lindar said, clearly understanding Sam's hopeful face. "These ruffians followed me for awhile, perhaps trying to make sure I was unarmed, perhaps waiting to come up to me in a place where there were no others who might help me resist them. They came upon me in the woods where you found me, beat me, stole my horse and everything I owned, and left me for dead."

He sipped the hot tea gratefully. "That was several days ago, I think. Elves are immortal, but that does not mean we cannot suffer, and I am grateful to you. I was afraid even to call out, for fear that there were more about. But when I heard your song" - and he nodded to Frodo - "I believed that Elbereth had sent me succor, and this was her sign. And apparently I was correct."

Frodo flushed at the idea he was a gift from Elbereth, and managed to blurt out a few words combining courteous pleasure to be of help with a denial of any gift status. Lindar smiled, but did not seem convinced.

"It was good to hear the name of the Kindler, and in song, so far from home."

"Well," Sam said, collecting dishes and putting them to boil, "the big question seems to me to be, where's your companion? And is she coming after you, or not? Because you need clothes, and a better bed than what we gave you last night, and maybe a healer to see to all those bruises and such. We can't carry you, but one of us could stay, and the other go for help."

"You're right, Sam," Frodo agreed, as his mind slowly began to work again. "It would be better, I think, if I went; I make slightly better time." What went unsaid is that a gentlehobbit might find it easier to command appropriate arrangements than an ordinary stranger as Sam would be. "If Lindar will agree, I can set out for Needlehole immediately. I should be able to be back in a few hours. I'm not sure we can bring a cart into this forest, but I should be able to find a large pony, and . . . well, something that will do for clothes."

Lindar nodded. "I would be grateful. My companion is good at tracking, and should she not come today, I can leave her a sign or a note."

"I have paper and quill."

"Do you?" he smiled at Frodo. "I had heard that the Shire had few lettered folk. But I should not be surprised that one who sang what you sang should be one of them."

"Sam, you've got the writing things."

"Yes, sir. Shall I. . . "

"No, leave it for later. We don't know what to say yet."

Frodo put an arm around Sam and led him a small distance away. "Sam, are you comfortable with this?" he asked in a low voice. "Do you mind my leaving you?"

"Now, Mr. Frodo, how am I going to answer that? Of course it's fine to leave me. But of course I mind you going alone. We don't know where those ruffians went, and anyway . . . " he looked a little embarrassed, "well, never mind. But you be careful, sir."

"I'm always careful."

"Not so I've noticed." Frodo patted his head and set out.

Lindar appeared to have drowsed off, so Sam took the opportunity to tidy the campsite and find some dead wood for the fire. When he'd built it up, he turned to see Lindar watching him.

"Come talk to me," the elf said, and Sam willingly came and sat by him.

"What about, sir?"

"Well, to begin with . . . your master said you had the writing things. Are you also lettered?"

"Yes, sir."

"Is my information about your people incorrect?"

Sam shook his head. "Gentlefolk can mostly read and write, but there ain't that many of them. But Frodo's cousin taught me my letters."

"Why?"

"Because I wanted to learn."

He smiled. "Again, I will ask why."

"Well, sir, Mr. Frodo and Mr. Bilbo told me stories out of books, and I wanted to be able to read those stories any time I wanted."

"Mr. Bilbo?"

"Mr. Frodo's cousin, as adopted him some years back. He lives with him now, in Hobbiton, and my gaffer's gardener there. I help."

"I see. " Lindar thought about this. "So you wanted more stories. And more songs?"

"Yes. Mr. Frodo taught me a little elvish, but that's harder."

"What are your favorites?"

Sam considered this. "I like the elf stories better than the Men stories. I've always wanted to see elves, sir. And I like the ones best where they fight on the side of good. That's why Mr. Frodo was singing the piece about the Sickle last night, because he knows I like the part about Beren and Luthien in the pits of Sauron."

"Beren and Luthien . . . " Lindar looked faraway. "But you're forgetting Felagund."

"Well, I don't like it that he died. I don't like that at all. It's sad."

"Yes, Samwise, that's the difference between a song of history and a story you can write."

Sam continued to frown. "I've always thought it was so strange, that Beren grieves for Felagund so hard, and then sings to Luthien and goes off with her."

Lindar smiled. "You know, Sam, you can love more than one person at a time, and when someone dies, you can love someone else."

"So Beren did love Felagund? I asked Mr. Frodo and all he said was he thought so."

"Oh yes. You've only read translations?"

"I can't read elvish, I told you."

"Well, in the songs, it's quite clear that Beren and Felagund were lovers. Felagund died to save Beren because he loved him so very much. . . . " Lindar broke off to stare at Sam. "What's the matter?"

"Nothin'." But Sam's mouth had dropped. " **Lovers**?"

"How old are you, Samwise?"

"15."

"Do you know what a lover is?"

"Yes, sir. It's two people who lie together like man and wife, only they aren't. But . . . "

Lindar looked a little concerned. "Perhaps among your people this doesn't happen, but for men and elves, sometimes two men or two women lie together as well. Or at any rate, love each other in this way."

Sam thought about this for some time. Later, he was to note that elves, or at least Lindar, were quite patient, because he might have thought about it for as long as 10 or 15 minutes before he spoke again. "I think it does happen, now that you mention it, but I don't think we're supposed to talk about it or admit it. Or, at least, they don't tell us younger ones."

"Well, I can't imagine how you can understand some of the great love stories without knowing that."

"Most hobbits don't know the great love stories, sir. Or any love stories. Hobbits like gossip more than stories, like who married who and what happened to their children. Or how things come to be."

"But you are different?"

"Yes, sir. I don't know why. Maybe it's just because of Mr. Frodo."

"You are very loyal to your master, Samwise?"

"He's different than everyone else in the Shire, sir, even Mr. Bilbo."

"Yes, I saw something of the eldar in him. And you see it?"

"I think most people see it, sir. But most hobbits don't like it, because it's odd. But I like it. I like him. It seems like there might be songs made about him, someday, and I plan to be around to hear them."

"Do you indeed." Lindar smiled. "Do you know where songs come from, young one?"

"Sir?"

"Singers make the songs. People who keep asking questions, and then turn the answers into the tale. There are people who have adventures, and then people who tell about them."

"Like Beren and Luthien. Someone told their story."

"Several people."

"But there was a minstrel in love with Luthien, who told on her so she couldn't follow Beren. I've forgotten his name - it started with a D, I think. So was he a minstrel or part of the story?"

"Ah," said Lindar sadly, "thereby hangs a tale. I think he was a minstrel who made a mistake and became part of the story. But you know, when you're in a tale, you don't always know you're part of one. You make bad mistakes sometimes."

"So I could be part of a tale too?"

"Yes."

"There ain't many 15-year-old heroes."

"Well, your tale may not have started yet. At least the part that will be sung."

"'Twill be Mr. Frodo's tale, anyway. I'll just be sort of an extra part, like the minstrel."

"That well may be. Unless it's a love story." Lindar looked at him teasingly, and then the smile disappeared as he saw Sam's face. "Oh, my, you're not as young as I thought."

"No," Sam said. "I'm not as young as all that." And he looked somewhere much farther away than the clearing.

Lindar put his arm around him. "Don't look so sad. You don't know what the story is yet."

"No, but if a minstrel ain't fitting, what does that say about a gardener?'

The elf smiled kindly. "It says that it will have to be a most unusual love story. Perhaps as unusual as two halflings who find an elf by singing an old lay in an enchanted wood."

"Maybe."

"Let me suggest a change of topic. Would you care to do what is traditional when two minstrels meet?"

"What's that, sir?"

"Exchange songs and stories, of course."

When Frodo returned, late in the afternoon, he was riding a pony and leading another. The second one was quite large, for a pony. It had no saddle, but Frodo had lashed certain items behind his own.

He was startled to hear laughter as he rode into the clearing, in what sounded almost like musical harmony - the mid-tenor of a hobbit whose voice was just past changing, and the lower tenor of a well-trained elf.

He saw his ordinary, dull, predictable servant standing on a fallen tree, a walking stick in his hand, declaiming, "Burn, burn, tree and fern!/ Shrivel and scorch! A fizzling torch/ To light the night for our delight, /Ya Hey!"

Their elven guest, seated with one blanket knotted over his shoulders and the other tied around his waist, was beating time and occasionally saying, "Róma! Róma!"

Frodo froze on the pony and simply stared, until Sam saw him, blushed beet red, and leaped off the log.

"Lindar was teaching me. . . teaching me how minstrels get trained to tell stories," he said. "And I was just teaching him some of Bilbo's stories. "

"I see." Frodo dismounted and joined them, looking a little less astonished. "No wonder the elves are noted storytellers - hobbits do not train others how to do it." He bowed to their guest. "I have arranged a room at the inn for you, and have brought trousers made for a larger hobbit that should fit although you will find them short. Also a long tunic."

"I thank you for your courtesy, Frodo Baggins." The elf accepted the clothing and donned it with little trouble, belting it at the waist with some rope Frodo had thoughtfully purchased, just in case. He looked much healthier already.

After leaving the message he had planned for his friend, Lindar and the hobbits rode to Needlehole. The inn had been crowded, but Frodo had been persuasive, and perhaps the innkeeper also thought of the likely additional custom he would get with such an unusual customer.

There, they said goodbye, for Lindar would not hear of keeping them from their own business longer.

"My companion will find me soon, I am certain," he said, "and you came for a festival."

"Yes, but I'm no longer sure it's what I really wanted," Frodo said.

"Music and singing and good beer?" Lindar asked him. "You don't want that?"

Frodo laughed, then sighed. "Yes, I do, and Sam deserves it after taking such a detour just to keep me company. But I would have liked to spend time with you, and hear a story I haven't heard before."

"Well," Lindar said, "we were well-met by the favor of Elbereth, and there may yet be a day you hear a song you've never heard, or even one I haven't sung yet. Good journey, and good fortune! And goodbye, Sam, someday I shall hear the end of your song about the trolls!"

And so they parted.

 

Epilogue - SR 1419, Field of Cormallen

Two bruised and bedraggled hobbits sat on a throne of green turves and listened to a minstrel of Gondor finish a brand-new song. "Praise them with great praise!" he concluded, and knelt to them both.

Frodo and Sam stood as the rest of the listeners moved to the banquet. Sam scratched a little from the undeniably filthy clothing. He noticed it smelled rather worse than he remembered. -"Well, that's one good thing I didn't appreciate at the time!" he said to Frodo. "I think my nose was tired of me, because I couldn't smell myself in Mordor!"

Frodo grinned, and nodded. They paused to thank the minstrel before following their host, and Sam's hand rested in the singer's a moment.

"Well, Samwise," the minstrel said, "How does it feel to be in a song?"

"Odd and ordinary," Sam admitted. "I didn't know I was in a song at all, but I kept hoping there'd be one. I never thought 'twould be you to sing it, though."

"Well, I had told Frodo there might be a song he'd never heard before, perhaps that I'd never sung before, so it seemed right to beg the honor."

Then Frodo, who had been listening bemused to Sam, made the connection. "Lindar! We are twice honored! I'm sorry I didn't recognize you!"

"You saw me less than Sam did," Lindar said, "and I think perhaps this must be overwhelming after your recent journey."

"Yes, it is." And Frodo reached his hand out toward Sam who, still watching Lindar, took it and kissed it gently. It was a gesture which had been made so many times it was clear that both of them knew where each other was without looking.

Lindar's well-trained eyes observed this, and he leaned close to Sam. "And is it then that most unusual story?" he asked.

Sam looked over at the hero of the tale, and his eyes filled. "Yes, it is," he said. "A _most_ unusual story."

Maybe you'll write that song too, someday. I am glad for you."

Frodo looked bewildered. "I'll tell you later, love," Sam said. "We'd best do what we're supposed to, now. Thank you again for your song, Lindar."

Lindar made a deep bow. "If I am to sing of you, then I would be honored if you used my real name as well, Samwise. I see you have kept it unsaid all these years, as I requested."

Sam bowed back.

"Thank you, Daeron," Sam said.

And the ringbearers left the Field of Cormallen.

 

End

**Author's Note:**

> Daeron was the name of the minstrel who betrayed Luthien & Beren to Thingol because he also loved Luthien.* Silmarillion*, pp. 166, 172. "Burn, Burn, tree and fern is of course from The Hobbit.


End file.
